


What Is Dead May Never Die

by ClementineStarling



Series: ... and the Devil walks with Him [2]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magic is Real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... but rises again, harder and stronger.</p><p>In which great Chtulhu gets an ASOIAF-inspired epithet, I meddle with Lovecraft, and Blackwood goes looking for a certain book... (pre-canon, obviously)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Dead May Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry, this has no Coward in it. I swear to correct this mistake asap in other fics to come. (There is no end in sight to this obsession... because some rogue areas of my brains won't shut up about the whole thing)
> 
> My mind casted a Knight's Tale-version of Paul Bettany as William Paxton (absurdly enough in retrospect, meaning after I had finished the fic; how weird is that?), though as of yet it has not presented me with a clear picture of Nyarlathotep, so well, still stuck to the usual whitey-think-patterns, I guess.
> 
> What else? Sadly this has not seen any beta-reading, so please, if you see something: this isn't Night Vale.  
> And of course, last but not least, thank you for reading. :D

His plan has been meticulous, the date determined for the better part of a decade, a silver lining at the horizon of too many dull and laborious years: He leaves England on his 38th birthday, just as scheduled, not one day earlier, with all financial goals reached, all affairs set in order, and all his money put to work. He is a perfectionist in that regard. An aspect of himself he intends to leave behind, just as the daily routine of accounts and business meetings, overseeing experiments and worrying about stock market prices. He has worked hard – harder than any gentleman ever should – to conjure wealth from his father's meagre heritage, spin straw into gold, a magician's trick of clever investments, innovation and the absolute lack of qualms, and he has been richly rewarded for his efforts. But entrepreneur was never his choice of career, only a path born from necessity. Running his businesses have been the means to an end, to gain financial independence and the freedom to do as he pleases. And now that this task is accomplished, it is time to move on. Liberty awaits.

And he never looks back, not when he climbs into the coach in front of his house, not when he boards the train in London, not when walks down the jetty at Dover. His gaze is directed forwards, onto the exuberant roiling of the sea, the foam-crowned waters in gleeful turmoil, that mirrors so adequately his own excitement, while behind him the white cliffs fade to nothingness, unseen, unnoticed. All that matters lies ahead; the present has no concern for the past.

The secret of success, Blackwood has found, lies in the ability to focus, in a distinct single-mindedness, the absolute absence of doubt. Self-consciousness is what makes one trip and falter. He who wants to achieve his goal must forgo any inclination for introspection, negate the idea of failure itself. It is true for business as much as it is for magic. 

Only this state of immediacy begins to crumble the moment he embarks on his journey. It is a most peculiar transformation that makes itself known once he leaves the ferry at Calais and sets foot on foreign ground. At first it is scarcely perceivable, France it not so unlike England, and he is of course fluent in French, but with every step that takes him farther away from his homeland, every other train station – Strasbourg, Munich, Vienna, Budapest – it is growing inside him, a queer sense of becoming someone who as of yet he has been by birth and abstract concept alone. Blackwood has never considered himself much of a patriot before. What did he care about queen and country, when had to worry about his own affairs – livelihood, profit, investment? Money knows no borders, capitalism cannot be fettered to silly loyalties, and self-interest is an end in itself. He used to think of himself as a lord's son, as a capitalist, as a practitioner of magic, a scholar perhaps, in short: as all kinds of things, but never just plainly as an Englishman. Not until he left British soil, not until every impression reflects his own provenance back at him, all the manners and habits and customs that until that moment have simply been invisible, that now appear strange and foreign. Now that he is abroad, it feels like looking into a mirror for the first time and seeing himself for what he truly is.

The further he travels east, past Bucarest and Istanbul, the sharper his reflection becomes in the way people look at him – stranger, exploiter, oppressor – their eyes say clearly what their tongues dare not, however cleverly they try to conceal their loathing behind a mask of courtesy and politeness. They understand quite well that he belongs to a nation lying in wait for the old empires to crumble, so it can swallow their lands, country by country, region by region, and still they abide by an ancient set of rules, Christian Europe has long since forgotten about, and the law of hospitality is the most honoured among them, which they grant even to him, child of ever-greedy Britannia. 

In the larger cities there is a twist to the welcome, it is not simply the performance of a duty. Blackwood is used to being attended to, it is something one of his status and position is raised to expect, but even he is not accustomed to people indulging his every whim, treating him like a prince. It takes him a while to understand the pretence for what it is – a show put up to appease them, serve them scraps and satisfy their appetites, before their hunger grows too great, to prevent them from devouring their culture and wealth and goods as a whole. 

It is the strangest notion, to be, for once, oneself the monster everyone sacrifices to.

__

Under the circumstances Blackwood is not (in the strictest sense) surprised, when the notorious sinfulness of the orient turns out to be yet another myth, a Europe-spun narrative now enacted by the locals to deliver on foreign expectations. Everywhere he goes he encounters those little charades, designed to cater to the fantasies of sex-starved travellers; more than once he finds himself amidst lush bodies jingling with fake gold to unfamiliar music, ember-eyed beauties reaching out for him, offering to drag him into their lairs of fairy tale pleasure and fulfil every last one of his perverse dreams. 

Such distractions are however not what he is looking for in these strange cities with their steep walls, narrow alleys, and lush ornaments. And while on principle he is not opposed to carnal pleasures, he is too careful to let base desires interfere with his quest. He has come to chase a rumour, a textbook of obscure origin, said to be the most powerful grimoire in existence, far more powerful than anything the Order possesses. He has heard only whispers about it, though they were reverent and full of awe, and something rang true about them, so true he decided to go looking for it himself.

It would be easier, if the natives did not consider him a potential enemy, if there was something like common ground he could appeal to, but there is not; no reward, no bribe, no price can achieve him the contacts he needs, and he is running short of ideas about how to locate those of a kindred spirit, practitioners of the arts, magicians, fellow occultists. He has tried to master their tongues (and more than once cursed his education that focussed almost entirely on dead languages like Latin and Ancient Greek), but to no avail. To earn him more than fundamental conversational skills in at least one of their dialects, might take years, it seems. Which does not mean, he stops trying of course. Henry Blackwood is none to give up easily.

He also keeps stubbornly wandering the streets, browses shops and markets, drinks coffee with the merchants, pitch-black and sugary and flavoured with spices he has never tasted before, and no less sweet mint tea from tiny cups, and he wears their clothes too, these loose airy garments that feel odd after half a life-time in too many layers of stiff fabric; and finally as the weeks pass the alien surroundings begin to seep into him, the foreignness takes root somewhere, fills him just like before the sudden notion of being English. He sheds his identity again, like a snake sheds its skin, and with every one of those little transformations, he feels a little more like the self he was meant to be. And somehow befittingly his skin changes colour too, tans from its noble pallor to a bronze shade almost resembling the locals, and with his sharp features and dark hair and golden eyes, he begins to look more like them than like a proper English gentleman, as if the sun has burnt all his heritage from his appearance.

__

Weeks have faded into months, when he makes a useful acquaintance at last: Paxton, a young chap from Sussex, bearing all the characteristics of a fellow countrymen, all these features Blackwood himself lacks: lily-white skin baked to an unhealthy rose colour, reddish blonde hair he hides beneath a kufiya, a somewhat scrawny appearance. Most remarkable about him are the eyes though, the watery iris nearly swallowed by the black of the pupil, as if widened by fear, but that might only be a trick of the dim light.

He approaches Blackwood one evening, past dinner time – as he is having his digestif in the hotel bar, studying a particular cryptic paragraph in von Juntz's _Von unaussprechlichen Kulten_ – and introduces himself as an expert of regional affairs, a guide to this beautiful city, so to speak, and here to humbly offer his knowledge to the Honourable Henry Blackwood, if only he were willing to employ his services, for a rather small amount of money indeed, given the immeasurable value of his information.

Blackwood is about to wave him away, he has already met too many self-proclaimed experts on local affairs, and been led to too many a brothel to regard their expertise as anything but cheap sensationalism. But then Paxton says something that makes him reconsider. 

“I've been told you look for a certain book”, he says, gaze quivering nervously, unsteady, as if something is after him, something that only ever appears in the corner of one's eye.

Blackwood leans back in his chair and takes a good long look at the fellow, at the worn fabric of his clothes, the slightly frayed cuffs and shabby shoes. Certainly, at first glance he appears to be simply one of the stranded travellers littering these cities, poor souls who for whatever reasons have run out of money and now are stuck abroad, with nothing to sell but their hide, always on the lookout for other Europeans they can offer their services to, show them around, the sights and local landmarks and all the not so well kept secrets of the natives, one happens upon when staying in one place for a while. 

There is something about the man that sparks his interest though, something that distinguishes him from the other self-appointed experts. He seems not only desperate to make a living, perhaps scrape together enough money to make it home some day, there must be another motivation that drives him, Blackwood's practised eye can make out a glimpse of it. Beneath the haunted expression lies a sort of peculiar hunger, not simply for food, but for something else, and Blackwood finds himself curious as to what it is Paxton longs for. 

He fishes a cigarette from its case, slowly, languidly, in an almost bored manner, while his gaze never leaves Paxton's face, he takes his sweet time, until he asks him to sit and offers his new acquaintance a cigarette, too; the tension melts from Paxton's posture as soon as he slumps on the chair across the table, and there is a flicker of relief on his expression, but underneath Blackwood can still sense a deep-rooted anxiousness, and he murmurs an incantation under his breath, when he produces a light, that makes the flare of his match a tad brighter than seems entirely natural, and expects a brief moment of recognition, the hell-fire clarity of the flame to reveal Paxton's powers, but to Blackwood's astonishment, he cannot see a trace of magic in the man, even though there is an odd darkness within him, festering like a disease.

“What do you know about the book?”, he asks casually while he shakes the match to put it out. Although he does not seem to know its meaning, Paxton appears to have been mesmerised by the flame, and only answers a couple of seconds after the light went out.

“What, erm, yes”, he says, “the book... it is an old manuscript, I hear, dating back to the eighth century.”  
His eyes flicker again, before he goes on. “Its author named it after the noises of the night, these eerie sounds that...” He stops just there, his eyes wide, this time unmistakably from terror, and Blackwood only nods.

“That is what I'm looking for”, he says, “-- and you know how to come by it?!”

“I... I think so.” 

“But there is a catch--”

Paxton laughs, a dry, unhealthy, hollow sound, the smoke spilling from his lips like fumes of hell.  
“What do you think?”

Blackwood allows his thin lips to curl into the faintest smirk. Naturally he understands quite perfectly what he is dealing with, not enough to resort to means of magic to find it though – he won't make himself shine like a bloody beacon in the dark unless he has no other choice, that's why he needs someone to lead the way – but Paxton cannot possibly know that. Nothing about him has given Blackwood the impression he suspects him to be anything more than an eccentric rich Englishman, looking for an adventure.

“What will it cost me?”, he asks pointedly casual, beckoning to the waiter for another drink, as if everything were just a matter of price and he didn't notice the sweat erupting on Paxton's face. Curiously, for all he is offering, he does not seem to eager to get the job.

The brandy lies lazy and golden as sunlight in the heavy crystal, when they raise their glasses to a toast. “To business”, Blackwood suggests, for that's what his part demands, and he can hardly think of anything else to say. He has not yet made sense of Paxton, there is still more than one unknown factor to the equation, and he is careful not to give too much of his intentions away.

__

Somehow he expected to be taken outside the city at midnight, led to some spooky old ruin, an ancient temple or the remains of a graveyard. A lonely, mysterious place in the dunes, with only the cruel twinkle of the stars above and not a soul for a witness. Not that he has any reason to be afraid, he can take of himself, and he is also prepared for all kinds of fraud and tricks and make-belief, but what Paxton actually proposes is of much more mundane nature – to travel North, visit the City of Jasmine, as he poetically puts it.

Blackwood has already been to Damascus of course, it's where he started his quest in earnest, followed the path of the scripture backwards, retraced every station that was mentioned in one of his books, but without ever coming across a proper lead. So while he remains sceptical about the fruitfulness of the journey, at least in the terms of success he has nothing to lose. 

Paxton attempts his best at being an agreeable travel companion as well as at appearing competent regarding their endeavour, and – in Blackwood's opinion – fails both miserably. It's not long until he starts counting not only the days but the hours it will take them to reach their destination. There is neither pause nor end to Paxton's tireless chatter. He likes to talk about things of little significance, the food, the weather, wine, women... Especially women. Filthy anecdotes, lewd insinuations, vulgar remarks pour from him like the babble of a stream, and even Blackwood who is no particular friend of what people call common decency is not amused by such a breach of decorum. 

Still, sometimes Blackwood does happen upon some vaguely useful piece of information in the otherwise disgusting rubble of Paxton's mind. While his guide refuses to speak directly about the book, he has quite a bit to tell about anything else, especially when it comes to its author, Ali Abd al-Hamid ibn Abd al-Aziz al-Azrad, as he claims his real name to be. “Arabic names are a little complicated”, he explains for what isn't most definitely the first time (nor the second or third), “and people are not too happy when one messes them up. Also they do not take kindly to Abd al-Azrad being called a 'mad Arab'. Not because they actually would deny his was mad, at least most of them wouldn't, but because he is one of them and it's their privilege to decide upon madness. You could say it's like the French calling Napoleon a megalomanic, I don't think they would appreciate, if we did the same, would they? I knew a French whore once, who told me...”

And so it goes on and on. In between Blackwood sometimes picks up on something interesting, like Paxton's family background (much like his own: old family, though mostly impoverished, and Paxton is too far down the line of succession to ever inherit a title) or the reasons he set out to seek his fortune. As it turns out Paxton is even younger than he looks, for the unkind effect of the sun has prematurely aged his pale skin, scarcely past his mid-twenties, and he's never done anything useful in his life, it appears, but entertaining himself with the traditional pastimes of nobility: drinking and gambling and whoring and time-wasting. From what Blackwood has gathered between the lines, he has fallen in with a shady crowd and – without really meaning to – found himself in the company of a group of Satanists, not unlike the Order he comes from himself, though less... civilised. They seem to still practice the old ways here, blood-sacrifice, grave-robbery, blasphemy, sacred prostitution. Paxton is of course not at liberty to tell Blackwood this, but he can't help to let allusions slip when it is late and he is drunk on hashish and wine and the intoxicating memory of his conquests, and Blackwood is too smart not to put together the pieces.

Sometimes, when night falls, a queer sort of hunger flashes up in Paxton's eyes, Blackwood can barely catch a glimpse of, before his companion excuses himself and wanders off in the gathering darkness; and were it not for the endless stories of women, Blackwood would have guessed, that at least in one area their preferences might not be too different after all. He has seen the efforts of men to hide their desires, the tell-tale signs of arousal, the same sudden disappearances, but Paxton never offers, not even in the most subtle of ways, so he can't make heads nor tails of his behaviour, but perhaps it doesn't matter anyway. 

The further they venture into the desert, the more other things begin to occupy Blackwood's mind. The days in the relentless heat are exhausting, yet still, at night he finds no rest. Outside something lies in wait, he can feel it, pressing against the tarpaulins of the tent, he can hear it in the blood rushing in his ears, that – in the absence of other sounds – he has listened to for so long, it appears to come from outside his body. And once sleep claims him after all, he dreams the most vivid dreams: of ravenous sand and vast skies housing strange stars and ancient winds that never still. There are places in his dreams that ought not exist, cities without names, temples without gods, buildings of impossible shapes, that shift and slant, forgotten, forsaken, forfeit. He dreams of wide-mouthed smiles and silken limbs twining around him, of knowing eyes and eager hands, strangely familiar, and the blood-curdling sensation of gaping darkness, in which things lurk that are older than time itself. 

And when he wakes, he tastes the faint, salty tang of seawater in his mouth.  
And Paxton whispers in the dark, eyes gleaming: “They are coming”, and words in an unknown, guttural language, Blackwood does not recognise, and there is a sibilance to his voice, that makes him shiver.

As soon as the first rays of sun fall upon the dunes, normality is restored, and Paxton becomes once again his chatty, slightly nerve-racking self, that in its vulgarity seems comfortingly mundane. 

__

Blackwood is virtually rattled when they reach Damascus at last; the constant sense of foreboding, of unfathomable, invisible horrors biding their time, ready to strike any moment, has worn his patience thin and threadbare, and he is utterly relieved once they are back among people bustling through the narrow lanes and houses leaning comfortably in to each other. Never before has he felt such a strong need for the safety of walls around him. He knows how irrational this notion is, stones won't offer protection against the forces at work, but he still cannot shake a feeling of relief, not to be out in the open anymore, at the mercy of the elements and what other powers might dwell in the endless wastelands the under the disturbingly vast sky. 

Perhaps it is the alleviation of tension which makes Blackwood agree to Paxton's suggestion that, after a bath and a decent meal, they should go celebrate, even though he ought to have known, what his guide had in mind. He does not complain though, when Paxton leads him to what must be a house of pleasure, and they are shown to a richly cushioned divan in a cosy alcove, framed by colourful drapes, a comfortable little den, and served wine and baklava and a hookah, and what remaining stress has still hidden itself in Blackwood's limbs, dissipates with the sweet smoke of the waterpipe.

Women are dancing, the same act as anywhere else, but this time Blackwood's opinion of their display is more gracious, even favourable perhaps. The sway of their hips appears soothing to his tired mind, like the physical performance of a lullaby, curves like the sea, rocking him to sleep. 

Blackwood must indeed have dozed off, for when he comes to, Paxton is gone and in his stead a pretty youth sits by his side, looking at him out of dark, enigmatic eyes. “Are you not interested in what you see?”, he says in very good English, the velvet of his accent a sultry undercurrent Blackwood could not miss, even if he were still asleep, and despite his exhaustion a dark hunger is welling up from his guts, reminding him how long it has been since he last indulged in the pleasures of the flesh.

“On the contrary”, he replies, allowing his desire to lower his voice to what is almost a purr, “what I see is very enticing.” As affirmation he places his hand on one of the boy's slender thighs, the warmth of skin palpable through the thin fabric of his trousers, and is rewarded with a smug smile. 

The boy leans closer, so close, Blackwood can fully appreciate the pearl of his teeth behind his sinful lips and the almost girlish curl of his lashes, and the scent of him, which is sweet, with just the right amount of masculine spice to be perfectly alluring. “May I kiss you?”, he whispers, and Blackwood must have given consent, because those luscious lips are suddenly upon his, and his hands clutch at the boy's shoulders in return, holding him in place, while he kisses him back, allowing his passion to overrule all gentleness. He licks into his mouth with the brutal honesty of his need, and the boy doesn't recoil but revels in his desire, moans into the onslaught of teeth and tongue, a spine-meltingly lewd sound of approval, that reverberates through Blackwood's body with the urgency of razor-blades.

He positively rips the clothes off the boy, who is much more nimble and patient with his attire, yet nevertheless, achieves his goal in about the same time, and then they are both naked, and Blackwood feels stripped to the core of his being, to an animal state of mind, bared of all control, only driven by an ungovernable need to possess, but the boy just laughs at his snarl and sharp teeth and flexing muscles, and pulls him down, onto him, into him, skin upon skin, flesh upon flesh, and Blackwood is swallowed by blind pleasure. 

The revelation that lies in the act has nothing to do with the metaphysical truth of love, there is no oceanic feeling, no transcendence of self, quite the opposite, he is drawn to this sharp, keen point, like a weapon, a rapier ready to thrust, his mind is steel-clear, hard, acute, there is no compassion anymore, no humanity beyond his reason, the ability to think without the restrictions of morality, it is utterly liberating. And it makes no sense, for what is more irrational than coupling, the mindless pleasure of another body, its squeeze and taste and feel and smell.

As if from a distance, outside his own body, Blackwood looks at his hands that dig cruelly into the boy's hips, so merciless, bruises will bloom from the tips of his fingers, exotic flowers under smooth brown skin, at his cock that is pounding a relentless rhythm into helpless, vulnerable, tight flesh, and even in his state of queer rupture, he might have felt something like pity for the violated boy, but then his gaze travels to his eyes, and they are night-black and bottomless, eerie like desert-darkness, and laughter bubbles up from the boy's guts, a demonic sound of glee, and something snaps, the bliss of orgasm almost painful, and Blackwood falls, and falls, and falls.

It was only a nightmare, he tells himself as he stumbles to his feet, suddenly so clumsy, dizzy from smoke and drink and sex, and he tries to run, but it is so dark, no candles, only a strange sound, and then he sees it by the light of the moon, a creature crouching over the motionless figure of a woman, producing those stomach-heaving slurping noises as it tears slick pieces from the body, fresh, wet meat, and Blackwood staggers backwards, and it lifts his head, and he cannot unsee it, but cannot believe it either, that this flesh-eating ghoul wears Paxton's face, smeared red with blood.

And he flees. Runs and runs and runs, through the labyrinth of narrow lanes and twisted alleyways, runs although he knows there is no escape, runs till his lungs burn and his muscles cramp and the stitches in his side won't let him go on and he is bent over, almost sick.

When he straightens again, the boy leans casually against a wall only a few paces away, and watches him out of these undead obsidian-eyes that make Blackwood's insides squirm.  
“I would have thought you smarter than to run”, he – it – declares in an almost exasperated tone.

Blackwood only stares his defiance. He knows that he has given in to another animal impulse, and it is obvious that it was futile, silly even. 

“Silly indeed”, it says, and draws closer. It is still naked under a twisting shroud of shadows, and Blackwood catches a glimpse of the imprint his fingers left on its skin. _How?_ he thinks. Thinks it aloud, obviously for the thing speaks again.

“Henry, please, come back to bed”, it says, no purrs, in the boy's soft voice – does it wear him like a suit? Blackwood does not dare think about it – and it smiles a razor-sharp smile, while it reaches out as if to take his hand.

“What do you want?”, Blackwood rasps, hating himself for the way his voice nearly gives out, but then who would blame him, it is after all utterly scary to be waylaid by a demon.

“Last time I heard it was you wanting something”, the thing says. “A certain spell-book by the name of Al Azif, if I remember correctly?”

 _But there is a catch--_  
_What will it cost me?_  
Blackwood remembers his own words. And the way Paxton – was he still Paxton then? - flinched at them, almost imperceivable. Now he knows why. But it's not the first time he has dealt with things like that, demons, spawn of hell.  
“What do you want me to trade?”, he asks.

“Why so hasty, Henry, dear. Let's get back to bed, we can talk about business later”, it croons again, still holding out its hand. The self-same hand that has touched him almost reverently not an hour earlier. Blackwood hesitates.  
“You know that I could have already hurt you if I wanted to, don't you?”

__

Of all strange things Blackwood has ever done, fucking a demon is the strangest by far.  
He would not even have thought himself capable, but his body is treacherous, and his mind fickle. It tends to forget what inhabits the pretty flesh, the gorgeous, velvety vessel, that feels so good around his cock. 

“Who are you?”, Blackwood pants one night, as he sets a particularly punishing pace, thrusting deep with each word.

“I go by many names”, the demon gasps, entirely lost in the sensations inflicted on his meaty prison. “I am the Dweller in Darkness, the Whispering Man, the Thing in the Yellow Mask, the Messenger of the Old Ones, the Faceless God. I have been called Iblis and Samael and Nyarlathotep.”

“Samael”, Blackwood chokes, the rhythm of his hips stuttering.

“It is only a name, child, and many of us share the titles you mortals bestow upon us”, the demon giggles, writhing under him. “And even if you were truly fucking your father, would you mind?”

And the boy it wears drags Blackwood into a kiss, that dissolves all doubt and worry, every last shred of coherent thought.

__

It is Paxton who leads Blackwood to the bookshop. Were it not for the swift flicker of guilt that ghosts over his features, Blackwood could have sworn, he was oblivious of his nightly activities. The mind, it appears, is a flexible thing, it bends before it breaks, and if something is too gruesome to accept, it will simply twist itself around it. This may be the way how Paxton can bear to exist, yet apparently also how Blackwood can tolerate his presence.

The shop is no more or less remarkable than any place that sells books, but the salesman pales when they enter the premises, perhaps not only aware who they are, but also who sent them, and bows so deep, Blackwood is tempted to laugh about so much devotion. Since when has devotion ever saved the lives of those forfeit? 

Nervously the man shows them to a small room in the back that is empty but for a handful of selected volumes, and Blackwood feels immediately that he has come to the right place. The whole chamber is buzzing with power. It is crackling in the air like electricity, a simmering density of magic. It envelops him like a cosy blanket, welcomes a master of the arts.

Paxton throws him an odd glance and retreats, leaving Blackwood alone in the treasure chamber.

Most of the books are written in Ancient Greek, some in Latin, some in Arabic, a few in older languages. As he draws nearer, Blackwood realises that they speak to him, reach out like mental hands, touching him, stroking him, and an almost erotic desire befalls him, to touch them in return.

He singles out Al Azif easily, it is the volume with the darkest, most powerful aura, he feels its lure in the tip of his fingers, itching to prise it open, to run his hands over the yellowed parchment in a loving caress. He knows before he has touched it that the pages will be skin-warm, as if alive, and in a way it is. 

His fingers tremble when he fumbles with the string holding it closed, and when it falls open, his breath hitches.

Blackwood isn't surprised that he understands the ancient Arabic without effort. Not only when he reads the book himself, also when it is read to him, like Nyarlathotep likes to do when they lie next to each other, a sated, sweaty tangle of limbs. 

It is with boyish seduction in his voice that he reads the tale of the Drowned God that lies in the city of R'lyeh, far under the sea, dead and yet only dreaming, waiting.

 _That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die._

There is something like hope, like love in Nyarlathotep's voice, and Blackwood understands why he is their messenger, for his words wake an unknown longing in him, a yearning for the greatness of these terrible Gods, cold madness and hot desire twined into each other, inseparable, a fever invoking shivers, and he feels the renewed stirring of arousal, and he takes the book from his lover's hands to kiss him, deep and thorough, and let himself devoured by sinful pleasure.

__

“You are a son of the Dragon”, his demonic lover whispers to him, when he wakes again with the smell of saltwater in his nose, or perhaps he is still asleep, and all of this a dream, he cannot decide anymore. The days have become a blur of drowsing and fucking and lessons of magic and lectures of unknown tales. “We created you”, the creature beside him goes on, “to open the Gates, to give us back what belongs to us.” And with this Blackwood falls again into a fitful slumber, haunted by unspeakable nightmares in which he learns to kill, to slice and to tear through flesh, evoke screams and pleas, all in honour of the Gods, for the acquisition of powers he never dreamt of.

It is a frenzy, a fever, a becoming.

Blackwood is not entirely sure how long he has been under the spell, when one day he is stirred from his trance. It is late, in the small hours of a dark night, and without thinking he wanders through the corridors of the house, that same house of ill repute, he has entered his first evening in Damascus and rarely left ever since. He steps out into the patio, the marble tiles still warm from the heat of the day under his naked feet, and there he finds them, his lover and Paxton, sitting next to yet another corpse, and the demon feeds the ghoul another slice of fresh meat from his hand, its wetness shimmering in the pale moonlight, and Paxton eagerly licks at the boyish fingers that drip with blood and other fluids, and Blackwood feels his stomach turning, and the retching creep up his insides. The sickness jerks something awake in him tough, and he leaves the same hour, secretly stealing himself away into the night.

__

Blackwood keeps on moving, travels further East, through Persia – where he visits the ruins of Babylon – following the old trade routes to India, returns through Arabia, and stays in Egypt for a while, always on the lookout for more knowledge, another spell, another book; later he will tell himself it wasn't out of fear but curiosity, that he never stayed anywhere too long, and he will force himself not to think about the magical protection circles he drew whenever he lay down to rest, and the nervous shiver that sometimes overcame him, when he believed to see a familiar face in the crowd.

The odd thing is that where before his adventure in Damascus he had trouble locating the practitioners among the natives, all those shamans and warlocks, witches and sorcerers, he can find them now without any effort, as if an inner compass was showing him the way. He sees things differently, clearer, sharper, the logic of the world is unfurling into easily readable patterns, and sometimes he wonders if he has gone mad after all, descended into the lunacy of prophets and sibyls, but then he remembers how this kind of self-reflection is the death of all success, and he stops worrying.

After a while he also stops glancing over his shoulder, and the tension wanes from his spirit, and when he returns to Europe at last, five years later, he is changed and yet very much the same: his mind is a blade that has been folded and folded again, quenched and tempered, until it has become hard and sharp and deadly like Damascene steel, and every bit as beautiful.

The presence has no concern for the past.  
And yet without it there is no future.


End file.
